


a prison, a shelter

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brooding, Complicated Relationships, F/M, First Time, Hopeful Ending, Imprisonment, In which Jon brings Sansa in for questioning and then visits her when she's under house arrest, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Mob Boss Petyr Baelish, Modern Westeros, Organized Crime, Past Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Police, Police Officer Jon, Rural Cottages, Single POV, The Night's Watch (ASoIaF), house arrest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 06:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15813528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: He was sent to talk to her, to soften her up and get her to turn informant on her husband.He hadn’t told them how well he knew her, that he and she had grown up together and if they hadn’t found that out on their own it was just another minor incompetence of the Night's Watch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belatrix/gifts).



> This story takes place in a modern Westeros, where Jon is an officer in the Night's Watch (which is a Westerosi-wide police force in this AU) and Sansa is the wife of mob boss Baelish. Jon and Sansa are unrelated in this story but he grew up alongside the Starks at Winterfell.
> 
> Sansa is 19 at the start of this story, and Jon 23.
> 
> if you want visuals, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/177455427267/you-were-young-he-said-he-took-advantage-of)

 

 

He was sent to talk to her, to soften her up and get her to turn informant on her husband.

He hadn’t told them how well he knew her, that he and she had grown up together and if they hadn’t found that out on their own it was just another minor incompetence of the Watch; but they sent him because he had a knack of getting people to talk, of being soft and careful with women but also not a pushover.

If I send Theon, his superior had drawled, she’ll fob him off with a hand job and he’ll return to us all moony-eyed and with zero useful information, and Jon had gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Do you think she’s a whore, he had wanted to say to him, this woman who we’re relying on to bring down Baelish, this woman who was like a sister to Jon.

There were so many things he hated about his job, about his superiors, and their casual misogyny was only one of them. So get another job, he told himself sarcastically, knowing that he never would, that he’d take all this shit just so he could help people, really help them. They could call him a white knight if they wanted, but he didn't care.

Jon was sent to talk to her - to work his way slowly into her trust with an eye to her turning informant in a few months - not to lock her and him in the panic room of the Vale estate as gunshots thundered outside and a hastily organised Night's Watch raid was taking place to take advantage of Corbray’s attempted coup on Baelish, but Jon hadn’t been about to abandon her when the chaos began, nor trust in her husband to see her to safety.

"My husband has the codes for this room," she said, arms around her shoulders, face composed.

She wasn’t panicking, this new, older, version of Sansa, standing there in her slinky evening dress with a glittering shawl about her shoulders and a slit in her skirt right up to her bare hip that he was desperately trying not to look at, to not think about the fact he couldn't see a hint of underwear.

She wasn’t panicking but he could see her shoulders tremble, he could hear the fatalism in her voice that he’d heard many times before in those about to be set before judge and jury or officer in a mirrored room, those about to be taken in.

"And I have a gun," Jon said, hand still resting on the piece on his hip. His heart was slower now after fifteen minutes inside the panic room, the doors and walls seeming to hold, the camera bank showing him every room and corridor of the compound. He would hunker in here with her and let the rest of them battle it out outside.

She snorted and then brushed hair out of her face with her fingers. "You must think I’m stupid," she said, "a stupid little rich girl."

"No, Sansa."

"I haven’t changed much," she continued, "I’m still spoiled." She plucked at the emerald bracelet on her wrist. "I could have come to you, or to my uncle, or anyone in authority when my parents were in trouble, when everything happened. I could have found shelter anywhere but here," she waved a hand above them, to the hallowed halls of one of the richest estates in Westeros, to the lair of the man at the centre of an unfathomably large spiderweb of crime and corruption. "But you should have seen the things he offered me, the things he gave me," she said ruefully, bitterly. "He wanted me to have everything, and he wanted to keep me safe."

"He didn’t do a good job of that, did he," Jon found himself saying, glancing up as she raised her eyebrows at him.

"If you weren’t here he would have gotten me out safe."

Jon set his jaw. That she had such faith in her lowlife of a husband made him angry.

"You think I’m lying?"

"I think we’re talking hypotheticals and I don’t know why."

"How long?" she asked then, looking away from him, staring at the blank wall across from her that was, she had told him when he hurried her inside, at least a metre thick.

"How long what?"

"How long will I go away for, how long behind bars?" she asked, chin lifted, voice proud but small.

"Sansa."

"You haven’t checked me for weapons, did you know that?" she said. "For all you know I have a knife on me, a gun."

"Where?" he said wryly, eyes glancing over her tight dress. There was something about her that riled him up, that made him sarcastic, and he didn’t know what it was. Was it just that he was attracted to her? Or was that he was ruffled by her haughty pride, the reminder of their difference in background, the daughter of the laird and he the teenage horse groomer’s son.

"I could have a blade hidden in my hair, I could have pills in a pocket. Don’t you check your hostages for things like that, in case they off themselves before you can question them?"

He strode straight over at that, took her wrists in lieu of his gun and radio, took his eyes off the screens and the door he had been watching. "Don’t talk like that," he said as she stared at him mulishly, her eyes a pale blue in the fluorescent lights of the room. "Don’t you dare."

"If you’re going to bring up my father," she said, flexing her wrists in his fists, her jaw tight, "don’t. And you’re not in charge of me, I can kill myself if I want."

"No you can’t," he gritted out, squeezing his fingers until he saw her eyes twitch with hurt and then he inhaled sharply and took his hands away. "You’re not dying, not on my watch," he said, trying to take charge of this conversation, bring it back to the soft patter he preferred when dealing with suspect’s wives or children.

"Isn’t dying better than a life behind bars, Jon? Don’t I deserve to die for what I’ve done?" She shivered and he wished he hadn’t discarded his jacket back in the house and could lay it around her shoulders, like a knight with a cape, like one of the heroes from the stories she used to beg to have read to her, the games she used to make him play in the grounds of Winterfell.

"Your husband is the one we’re after."

She breathed a laugh. "But I colluded with him, didn’t I," she said, "I sat back while everything happened - the drugs, the guns, the murders." Her chin shook.

"He won’t touch you again, he won’t hurt you, I promise."

"He never hurt me," she said with a frown like Jon had disappointed her. "Is that what they think, what you think, that I was coerced? He wasn’t a good man, my husband," she said and he noted her use of past tense as the gunshots continued through the tinny speakers in the panic room, "but he was good to me, kind, soft. That’s what people want to know, isn’t it," she said, drawing herself up, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders, "all the dirty details, how he fucked me, how he was my first, how he was with me when we were alone in the dark of our bedroom. They’ll call me his child-bride, the papers, won’t they, married so young, and looking as innocent as I do." She widened her eyes.

He felt a churn of jealousy in his gut that he hated, that sickened him, that reminded him of a similar flash of feeling he had felt when they were both young, when he had watched her from afar at Winterfell and thought her so very pretty. Imagining her then, two years ago, coltish and beautiful on her wedding night to that monster makes him want to beat his fists against the wall.

"You were young, he took advantage of you."

"He didn’t," she stressed.

"It doesn’t matter what you think happened. You think you’re the first wife or girlfriend that’s come to believe that it’s all her, that she’s corrupt at heart, that her mob boss boyfriend saw a kindred soul in her? They’re all the same, these men, they prey on weakness."

She grimaced and he saw a glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. The noise from above was dying down now, the men rushing down the corridors past the cameras slowing, the voices of officers he recognised becoming clearer with their orders and calls. They’d be found here soon, where Jon had told them he was, and he'd dutifully open the doors and insist on being the one who brought her in, who handcuffed her and drove her back to head office, who questioned her first.

"It’s good to know that you think I’m weak, Jon," she said, her voice tearful.

"Sansa," he said painfully, lifting a hand as if he could stroke it down her cheek, as if he could pull her towards him and hug her, as if it wouldn’t be inappropriate on so many levels. "You’ll be alright," he said, instead of touching her, as he saw her squeeze her arms around herself. "You know that, you’re pretty and young and they won’t put you in solitary, they won't even put you behind bars, you’ll make a plea bargain," he said, his voice slipping into an order now, "hey," he checked, moving his face so that her sorrowful eyes met his. "You’ll make a plea bargain," he insisted, waiting until she nodded, "and the press will sway the judge’s favour, or his memory of good old Ned Stark."

"So a few months and then house arrest," she said, wiping her nose on the back of her wrist.

"Exactly," he said.

"That’s terrible, Jon. That’s corrupt."

"I don’t care," he said easily. Corruption is an inevitability of human organisations, that’s what his mentor, and her uncle, Benjen had told him, words that he clung to at so many points in the last five years. "I don’t want you behind bars, you don’t know what it’s like there, not really."

"I’m too spoiled for it, you mean," she said, "too soft."

This again, he thought. "You’re not soft, not to survive in a place like this, with a husband like yours."

"I suppose a divorce is inevitable too," she said.

"Yes," he said, even though it wasn’t, they couldn’t force her to divorce him, if he was still alive, but Jon refused to have her remain tied to a man who would be behind bars for decades if not his entire life. He refused to let her be ruined by him.

"Officer Snow," the voice crackled from the speaker and he turned to see the screens, to see a crowd of familiar armed men waiting by the door to the panic room.

He breathed in, set his shoulders, and put himself back in the zone. "Stay behind me," he ordered her, where he could protect her, if only for a moment.

Protect her like he should have years ago when everything went to shit and he was gallivanting up at the Wall, while the family that had been _his_ family splintered, and a terrible man had been allowed to scoop her up and take her for his own with no resistance from anyone. It was his fault Sansa was here, his fault that she felt she had nowhere else to go, and that the world outside this room would make her pay for mistakes that weren’t hers. "Stay behind me," he repeated, as he pressed the buttons that would unlock the door. "Stay close, I’ll protect you," he said.

"Jon," she said, and he could feel her breath on the back of his neck and then the door slid up and chaos arrived.

 

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

"Are there cameras in here? I've often wondered," she said one day, as they stood in the kitchen and sipped politely on tea she had made for him when he arrived at her cottage on the northern bluff, her picturesque prison for the last six months and for the next two years. He had felt such relief he almost cried when he had heard she was getting the house arrest he had promised her she would.

"No," he said.

"That you know of."

"I can check if you want but no, we don’t have the money for cameras or the people to watch them. There’s the CCTV outside that shows people arriving and leaving but that’s it."

"I thought they might be getting a free show," she said, with a casual shrug of her shoulder that gutted him.

"No, Sansa," he said earnestly, softly, "there's no cameras."

She leaned back on the kitchen counter and played with a pile of spilled sugar. "He used to use cameras," she said, "everywhere, and I liked them, I felt safe with them."

He coughed to hide a grimace, gulped down tea and thought about putting his hands around Baelish's throat. They hadn't been able to pin everything on him, slippery as he was, and he was only in for fifteen years which, Jon thought bitterly, might be commuted to less on account of "good" behaviour.

He still had flashbacks, nightmares, of court. He was still filled with endless fury that Sansa had been made to stand there in front of her husband, even though Jon had argued vehemently for her to give video evidence instead; that Baelish had been allowed to speak to her across the courtroom, to use his soft voice with her, so that Jon could see right in front of him just how she was taken in by him. The whole thing had descended into a shit-show that the papers had lapped up.

 _Why did you marry him?_ the lawyers had asked her, like it was she who was on trial for her marriage and not Baelish for his crimes.

 _Because I wouldn't let him sleep with me otherwise_ , she had stated and the journalists had salivated. She had been seventeen when they married, legal but too young, and Jon had hated the prurient interest of everyone in that room.

 _And why did you marry her?_ they had then asked Baelish.

 _What can I say, I'm a romantic_ , he had said. _I know what it looks like, but I loved her_ , he shrugged and gazed sorrowfully over at her, and Jon had almost cracked a tooth gritting his jaw on how Baelish was playing the jury like a fiddle.

Someone in Baelish's team leaked the secret wedding photos the next day and Jon couldn't escape from them, the grainy pictures of Sansa in a simple white dress holding hands with her groom, the picturesque chapel in the background, the blur of the priest who had married them.

Does she think of him now, Jon wondered, as he looked at her across the kitchen, eyes glancing to the flowers she had placed in a vase by the window. Does she miss him? A part of her probably does and that's fine, he told himself sternly, he was all she knew for two years, he had been everything to her.

"Are you well?" he found himself saying to fill the silence.

"Yes, you already asked me that," she said politely. "Do you want cake?"

"Yes," he said, fisting his hands in his pockets.

"Have you met the chickens in the garden yet?" she asked as she carved two slices of cake. She licked the knife absentmindedly and he felt his cock twitch at the pink of her tongue.

"Nope."

"A treat for you after our cake then," she said wryly, giving him a plate and fork and sitting opposite him at the rickety table. "Do you think it's kind of fucked-up that they put me here?"

"Where, in the North?" he said, watching the way she pushed her hair over her shoulder.

"No, in this bucolic cottage, this fantasy," she said, waving her fork in the air. "With my vegetable garden and my chickens and the sea-view. Sometimes I think they're going to deliver me a cow and sheep one morning, and a bonnet and white dress. It just feels on the nose in a way I can't explain."

He hummed thoughtfully.

"It's like they're desperate for me to be innocent," she decided, eyes flicking up to his. "Some country virgin taken in by the city villain, naive, unworldly."

You were a virgin, he thought of saying but didn't, you were naive, we all were.

"If they only knew all the things I've seen and done."

He rubbed his jaw, felt the prickle of the beard he should have trimmed by now. He wanted to look nice for her and that always made him look not-nice, made him refuse to spruce himself up specially. As if a haircut might tell her that he wanted her.

"Do you know what I miss most," she said and something in him clenched, something in his stomach knew that this conversation was going somewhere he wished it wasn't. "Sex, that's what I miss most of all," she stated, "not the jewels or the dresses or the holidays. Isn't that terrible?" she said, ploughing on before Jon could stop her somehow. "He wasn't big, you know," she said mirthfully, "but he knew how to use it. Also, he was very good with his mouth," she said, and then licked icing off her fork with her tongue and he felt his cock start to fill. Fuck, he thought, wishing she was doing it on purpose but knowing that she probably wasn't.

"Sorry, you probably don't want to hear this, it's just I have no one to talk to," she said, with an embarrassed laugh, "I go a bit stir-crazy here, you're my only real visitor," she said and rubbed at the corner of her eye with a finger.

"It's fine," he said, even though it wasn't, his mind now full of images of her and that vile man, of her naked and flushed red, squirming on a bed somewhere. Fuck. "You said there was something I could help with?" he said, desperate to get out of this cramped kitchen, as if it was the locale that was the problem and not her sitting there looking like she always did, beautiful, out of reach.

"Yup," she said, "the gutter at the back, I need you to help me hold the ladder. I could ask my probation officer but I don't like him lingering round."

"Why?" he asked sharply, standing up from his seat, body tensing.

"I just don't like it, him being here, he's not a creep or anything," she said. "I just don't like the reminder of my imprisonment," she said heavily. "Not that I need it," she added, lifting her right foot to show off the slim ankle monitor that kept her confined to her house and garden aside from the few hours twice a week that she was allowed to walk into town to the shops, and the occasional hour they let her visit the beach alone.

 

He insisted on being the one to climb the ladder at the back of the house, scooping the leaves out of the gutter with gloved hands while she held it steady below. He could almost imagine that this was what his life was like, that he and she lived a homely existence together, that he was a farmer and she his wife. That he wouldn't go back to work after visiting her, clocking on tonight in Wintertown and picking up his gun from the store, heading out to deal with the dregs of humanity, all the petty crimes people could conjure up.

He had asked for a transfer North when he heard where she was being placed, and his superiors knew he visited her once a fortnight, he could hardly hide that from the cameras, but they didn't seem to care when he had explained they knew each other as children, didn't seem to worry that she might be using that connection, that he might be turned into an informant by her now. It was an open and shut case in their eyes, in most people's eyes, Baelish had used her and she was well rid of him, would have no impulse of her own to try and contact him.

Jon didn't think she would either, but then he wasn't so sure that Baelish wouldn't contact her in some way, wouldn't try and wheedle his way back in. Or that someone else would, on his behalf. It was lucky that Baelish was still so insistent that he loved her, because it would prevent someone from his side getting rid of her now that she had talked. She was under house arrest but she was also under protection from the Night's Watch, and Jon hated that he liked that side of her confinement, that he liked that he knew where she was always was, that she would be safe. Wasn't he just like Baelish and his cameras and guards then, he thought darkly.

After he was finished with the leaves, they went back inside and she told him to take off his jumper and that she would wash and dry it, insisted upon it even when he said it was fine.

"Please," she said, and he sighed and tugged it up.

The washer room was small and she was standing there in front of him and when the sleeves caught on his tired hands she moved closer, her body brushing against his and untangled him and he tried to keep his breath tight, not to breathe in the rich smell of her, not to tug her into him.

Her eyes met his and he swallowed, praying that she couldn't tell his thoughts. She set his jumper down beside him but didn't move back, her hand coming to rest on his chest that flushed with heat at her touch.

"Sansa," he murmured.

"Jon," she said, with a slightly mocking smile. She bit her lip and stared at his lips, rocked on her heels. "I like you visiting me," she said softly, like it was a secret.

"I like visiting you," he said, feeling himself smile, looking at her and seeing a glimpse of how she was when she was young.

"The cameras at the entrance," she said again, and he paused. "What do they think we’re doing with all the time you visit me, with the hour between when you arrive and leave?" she asked, her head tilted.

"I don't know," he said, stomach fluttering. "Having tea, eating cake, cleaning gutters."

"Hmm," she hummed. "And do you think I bake cakes for my probation officer, for the welfare officer, for the man who delivers me milk and bread?"

"No," he said.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Sansa," he said, voice catching as her hand slid upwards and curled around his neck. We shouldn't, he thought. She doesn't really want this, he thought. Fuck, he thought as his hands lifted and held her around the waist, as he dipped and pressed a kiss to her lips and felt her gasp and hook her arm around his neck.

"Please," she said between kisses, and he wanted to die. His hands were roaming across her back and up her sides, he was pulling her towards him, licking into her mouth, tasting the sugar on her tongue. One of her legs was lifting like she wanted to climb him and he pushed her back by the hip, knocking them against the narrow doorway as he manoeuvred them out of the room and into her bedroom at the end of the hall and pushed her against the closed door.

There were no cameras here, he thought, as he lifted both her legs around his hips and she rubbed herself against him, mewling and crying out as he sucked at her neck. He couldn't leave a mark but he wanted to. Her hands were scrabbling at the waist of his jeans and he stepped back to pull his t-shirt over his head and then unbuckle his belt as she trembled, her palms flat on the door behind her as if holding her up.

"You're sure," he said as, naked now, he unbuttoned her dress, kissing every patch of skin uncovered.

"Yes, please, Jon," she begged.

"Alright, you're alright," he said, touching her.

He moved her to the bed and then stood at the foot of it, panting as he looked at her lying there, her pale skin flushing pink the way he knew it would, her hair coiling around her breasts, the curls between her thighs, her hungry eyes and her nervous mouth.

"You're beautiful," he said, and crawled up over her.

"I've never been with anyone else," she whispered and he clenched a hand in the covers by her head.

"I know, it's fine," he said. "Tell me what to do, what you like," he said as he stroked her skin, as he dipped his head to suck at her pink nipples.

She shook her head. "I'll tell you if you're doing something wrong," she corrected.

"So you want me to do all the work," he teased, smoothing a hand down her middle to stroke his fingertips through her soaking folds, to hook a finger inside of her and grunt at how she felt.

"Please, Jon," she said again, and soon his cock was inside of her and she was blood-hot and soft and tight and he was groaning like he had been hit, her thighs rising up around his hips, his hands clutching her so tightly he thought they would bruise, her whimpers making him grit his teeth and thrust harder, trying to get her there before he came too soon, trying to make it good for her.

Afterwards, he was reluctant to slip out of her, resting himself over her, his head on her breastbone as she stroked his hair, as he stroked her hip and felt the after-tremors of her cunt.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Don't thank me. I've wanted to do that for a while."

"I know. I'm not so naive I don't know when a man wants me."

And you, he wanted to ask, when did you want me. Or does she want him, is she just using him. He'd be happy to be used by her really, and he doesn't care if that's pathetic.

"This could get you fired, couldn't it," she said, "fucking a prisoner."

He sucked his breath through his teeth and lifted his body up, slipping out of her, studying her face, her knowing eyes, her hair sweated into curls around her cheeks. "It could," he said. "Why, are you going to say something?" he teased.

"I could write it in a google search. What to do when the officer who arrested you sleeps with you and gives you fantastic orgasms."

"Fantastic, were they?" he said with a smirk. "Not mind-blowing?"

She rolled her eyes and settled her head back on the pillow. "You know I search for all kinds of odd things knowing that the shitty computer they gave me is tracked. Like the weirdest most niche porn." She laughed, a carefree laugh he hadn't heard from her since they were children, and he smiled.

"They get bored," he said, lying beside her, fingering a lock of her hair that lay looped around her right breast.

"That's what I thought," she said, "why not give them a bit of excitement."

 

"So what now, Officer Snow," she said later when he was putting his jumper back on warm from the dryer, and as she yawned and stood there in her towelling robe looking gorgeous and so very touchable he felt an itch in his palms. "You visit me once a fortnight, like some travelling salesman, make sure to satisfy me enough to last the days between your visits?"

"That sounds about right," he said, the backdrop of the humble cottage making what she said feel realer than his life outside, making him think of who they could have been centuries ago, him sneaking into the bedroom of the daughter of the laird, stealing what wasn't his to have.

"You know I'm still a kept woman," she said ironically. "I don't have to lift a finger, I'm supported by someone else's wealth."

"There's chickens that need looking after, and a vegetable patch."

"Jon," she said, pressing a finger to his chest.

"I know," he said, clutching her hand there, keeping it against the fabric of his jumper so he could just about feel the warmth of her skin through it. "It is what it is," he shrugged.

"It's fucked up, is what it is," she said. "And what happens next?" she asked again and he thought he saw her lip tremble. "When I'm free? You and me get a flat somewhere? I try and get a job even though everyone knows my face? You tell your buddies in the Watch that we're together?"

"I'll do whatever you want. I'll help you, protect you."

She gusted a sigh and then a faint beep sounded from her ankle. "I need to change the battery soon," she said ruefully. "Or else there'll be an armed team here within ten minutes, battering down the door."

He felt his body tense at the reminder of how he had found her, all the things that could have gone wrong, all the ways her time with Baelish could have ended with her dead.

I'm a prisoner too, he wanted to tell her. I'm locked to you, my body, my heart, and I don't think I can ever get free, even if you do, even if you find some other man to love after me.

"I deserve much worse than this, Jon," she said, misreading his fraught look. "And I suppose my life after this will be my real reckoning, my real chance to make amends."

"You'll have served your time, that's punishment enough."

She snorted. "My time, here in this gorgeous cottage?" she said, walking away towards the front door.

This lonely cottage, he thought, looking at the cake on the table as he passed the kitchen, the stack of library books on the shelf by the door.

"Maybe I'll get so bored I'll contact him, is that the point of all this," she said darkly, her back to him as she tugged her robe tightly around her.

"No, you won't," he said, his voice so harsh she turned to look at him.

"Maybe I will," she said with a shrug. "I don't know what it will be like six months from now. And I don't want you to feel beholden to me," she said, frowning. "I don't want you to think you have to come and keep me busy, make all this better. I don't want," she said, drawing herself up, "for you to think you have to turn me into a better person than I am, for you to think you can wind back the clock and I'll be as good as I used to be, as simple and pure."

"I don't want that," he said, a hand cupping her elbow. "Sansa, I want you, I love you-"

"You don't know me."

"I could love you then, if you let me." He raised a hand to her cheek, watched as her eyelashes fluttered. "That's all I want," he said, "to love you, to be with you."

He kissed her then, instead of asking what she wanted, letting the way she clung to him desperately speak for her, pressing kisses across her jaw and down to her neck, thinking of the day when he might be able to make a mark there, to have her be his and no one else's.

"What are they going to think today, with you being here for five hours, those men who watch the house," she said, pushing him back eventually, and he felt proud that her lips looked well-kissed, that her cheeks were flushed again.

"I don't care," he said.

She clucked her tongue and fixed the collar of his jumper. "Reckless, Jon."

"That's me," he said.

"Be safe out there, you have to," she said, tugging his collar, "because I can't come and get you if you're in trouble," she pointed at her ankle. "Alright?" she said firmly.

"Alright, I'll be safe. And you be safe, too."

"That's settled then," she said, nodding and stepping back away from him. "Now fix your face, Officer Snow, stop looking so dreamy."

"Dreamy?" he said with a pleased laugh.

"I meant the mood, not that you look— I don't know," she said, flustered.

He bowed his head to her and opened the door just wide enough to fit himself through and not wide enough for the cameras to see her in her robe. "Bye, Sansa," he said, "I'll see you soon."

"Bye," she said, looking small as she stood there, looking lonely.

"Soon," he said again and left her, feeling the growing distance between their bodies like a terrible ache.

Soon, he said under his breath as he drove away down the winding lanes towards Wintertown, trying not to think of his shift to come, of the lonely studio he would return to in the early hours of the morning, trying to speed up time so that he was at her doorstep again, being welcomed back inside.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you enjoyed this, I'd love to know what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/177455427267/you-were-young-he-said-he-took-advantage-of)


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